


It Would Have Been Enough

by areyouarealmonster



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alfred is bad at Hebrew, Gen, Jewish Bruce Wayne, Jewish Harvey Bullock, M/M, Passover at Wayne Manor, Pesach | Passover, Soft cranky older dudes fall in love over Passover seders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 16:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14024568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyouarealmonster/pseuds/areyouarealmonster
Summary: Bruce and Alfred have reunited, and Alfred is back at Wayne Manor. Passover is coming up and Bruce doesn't want to have seders, but Alfred insists for a bit of normalcy. In a twist of fate, Alfred then runs into Harvey Bullock in the Passover section of the supermarket, and invites him to join them for the first night.





	It Would Have Been Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [readwriteandavengers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/readwriteandavengers/gifts).



Alfred is fretting.

 

He’s back home at Wayne Manor, back with Master Bruce, but Passover is a week away, and even though Master B _says_ they don’t have to do any seders for it—they haven’t the last few years anyway—Alfred wants to do something.

 

He digs out the special Passover prayer books—the Haggadah, Master Bruce corrects with a small, sad smile—and goes shopping.

 

Alfred has tried to keep up with the Jewish traditions that Thomas and Martha bestowed on their son, but it’s hard. There’s so much else going on, that the holidays seem to slip away. Alfred has even forgotten about Christmas the last few years until it was just upon him. Not that he’s celebrated it much since coming to work for the Waynes; Chanukkah took over.

 

He was never much for Christmas anyway; he wasn’t raised religious, and even though, in London, Christmas is as secular as any holiday based in religion can be, it still got a bit much.

 

Although sometimes it might be nice to have ‘a bit much’ rather than what he and Master B have right now, which is ‘dead silent and a tad lonely.’

 

The store nearest to Wayne Manor doesn’t really have a great Passover section, so Alfred drives a bit further away, to a store in a more Jewish section of town. He’s staring at the selections when a hand reaches out in front of his face and grabs a box of matzah. He’d sensed someone approaching, but he’s at the grocery store—there are people all around.

 

“You a fan of eating stale cardboard or did I just not know you’re Jewish?” asks a gruff voice that belongs to the owner of the hand.

 

Alfred turns to find Harvey Bullock, unkempt as always, pushing a shopping cart that’s mostly empty except for a bottle of whiskey and the box of matzah he tosses in.

 

“Detective,” Alfred tries to say in greeting, but Bullock shakes his head emphatically.

 

“Oh, no, no, not you, too. I’m not back on the force, no matter what Jim might try to tell you. It’s just Harvey.”

 

“Bullock,” Alfred concedes. “Master Bruce is the Jewish one of us. I’m putting together a bit of a Passover seder, although it’ll be…” He’s about to say ‘quiet,’ but then he realizes the opportunity he’s just been given. “Actually, why don’t you join us, at least for the first night?”

 

“You inviting Jim, too?” Bullock asks. “I know you all are close.”

 

Alfred shakes his head. “No, he will not be joining us. Bruce doesn’t even think we should have a seder, with everything that’s been going on, but I’m insisting. It would be nice to have someone else Jewish there, so he doesn’t have to lead it. I’m really quite useless at Hebrew, even with transliteration.”

 

“Haven’t led a seder in a while,” Bullock muses. Alfred thinks he’s just pretending to mull it over, and he’s vindicated when Bullock nods. “Alright, what time should I come over? Do I gotta dress up?”

 

Alfred smiles to himself. This should, at the very least, be an interesting night.

 

* * *

 

 

The first night of Passover is rainy and brisk for late March, and Bullock shows up with rain pouring off his signature hat, the shoulders and back of his trench coat soaked almost all the way through even in the short walk from his car to the door. Alfred hangs them both up to dry as Bullock steps into the echoing hallway, finger-combing out his now-damp and gently curling hair.

 

“Glad you could make it,” Alfred offers. Bullock holds out a bottle of red wine in return.

 

“Kosher for Passover,” he says. “Don’t know exactly how much kosher Bruce keeps, but thought it’d be nice.”

 

“That’s perfect,” Alfred says, taking the bottle. “And not much, is the answer to your kosher question. We love a good bacon and eggs for breakfast.”

 

Bullock shudders. “Can’t stand the stuff, myself. Bacon, that is.”

 

“Well then, we won’t make you any,” Alfred replies.

 

“You expecting me to stay for breakfast?” Bullock asks, a teasing note in his voice.

 

“Depends on how much of that wine you drink,” Alfred shoots back. “If you and I finish the bottle, there’s no way you’re driving back to Gotham in this rain.”

 

“I think you’ve got a very low estimate of my alcohol tolerance, buddy,” Bullock says, as Alfred shows him into the dining room.

 

“We’ll see, then, won’t we?” Alfred replies, before calling up for Master Bruce to join them.

 

Bruce greets Bullock with stiff politeness, nothing like the warmth with which he greets Detective— _Captain_ Gordon. Alfred hopes he’ll thaw out a bit.

 

He doesn’t fault his young master, though. Alfred isn’t sure exactly how he feels about Bullock, himself. The man has no filter; he’s crude and blunt, informal and crotchety. But Captain Gordon cares very much for him and Alfred, in turn, cares very much for Gordon’s opinion on matters such as this.

 

He leads a Passover seder well, though; certainly much better than Alfred himself could. And slowly, Bruce starts to warm up.

 

It’s been a rough few weeks for the boy. For Alfred, too, actually. And he knows that Bullock has been disconnected from things, tending bar and the like. He seems to enjoy it, but Alfred knows what it’s like to have a calling, and to be cut off from that calling, no matter how intentional it may seem to be on the surface.

 

So, maybe Alfred plays up his horrid Hebrew pronunciations a tad for laughs. The mood could always do with lightening up, and if Alfred getting teased mercilessly can help that, he’ll take it.

 

“You know,” Bullock says, when they’ve reached the meal portion of the seder, pointing his forkful of brisket in Alfred’s general direction, “I dated this girl once—Irish but not Jewish—and it was around Purim that we got together. She did some research on her own, to kinda see what the whole thing was about and she came to me and asked, ‘What’s the deal with this dude _Mor-deck-ee_?’”

 

Bruce laughs, loud and loose, his voice cracking slightly, and Alfred thanks his lucky stars that he ran into Bullock at the store and invited him to the seder. This is turning out to be _exactly_ what they needed, even if Alfred doesn’t quite get what’s so funny about the joke.

 

“It’s Morde _ch_ ai, Alfred,” Bruce says, picking up on Alfred’s confusion. Ahh, mispronunciation, there we go. Alfred’s on board now, and he joins in the laughing, albeit a bit less enthusiastically than the other two. They’re enjoying themselves, though, so he is as well.

 

Master Bruce gets one small glass of wine for the seder, and then grape juice for the rest of the e evening, while Alfred and Bullock make quick work of the wine that Bullock had brought, before Alfred starts pulling bottles out of the wine cellar. They’re starting on the third when Bruce takes his leave, thanking Bullock for coming and leading the seder.

 

“Hey, no problem,” Bullock answers, saluting him with his wine glass and almost sloshing a bit over the side. “Haven’t had much of a Jewish community around me lately, was probably just gonna munch on some matzah and call it a night, so thanks for having me.”

 

Bruce nods in return, saying goodnight and disappearing up the stairs.

 

Silence falls for a minute. Alfred gets up to start clearing the table while Bullock sips more at the wine. He brings a few plates into the kitchen, and then hears footsteps behind him. Bullock is bringing the leftovers in, only slightly wobbly on his feet, and helpfully setting them down on the big wooden table in the middle of the room.

 

“You’re not letting me drive after this, are you?” he asks.

 

Alfred glances at the two empty bottles they’ve finished, next to the sink waiting to be rinsed, and he thinks of the third bottle, half-empty on the dining room table. “Not at all, no.”

 

“Fair enough,” Bullock replies, and saunters back into the dining room to keep collecting plates and leftovers. Alfred smiles to himself as he starts to wash the dishes.

 

Bullock finishes bringing everything in and perches next to Alfred with his wine glass and a dish towel. He starts drying the dishes on the rack, stacking them as he goes. Soon enough, he catches up and starts taking the dripping dishes right from Alfred’s hands.

 

It’s soothing. Alfred doesn’t usually let guests help with the housework, but Bullock doesn’t seem to want to entertain any arguments, or sit around while Alfred does the work. It’s quite nice, even if Alfred never minds doing chores on his own. That is, after all, his job.

 

“Bet it gets lonely,” Bullock says, when they’re nearly done. “Big quiet house, just you and the kid.”

 

It does, sometimes, but Alfred isn’t too keen to let him in on that. “We do well enough,” Alfred says. He can see Bullock staring at him out of the corner of his eye, while he finishes washing the seder plate. Bullock is still a detective at heart, Alfred knows, and his gaze is certainly sharp enough, even after all that wine.

 

“Heard you were fired.”

 

Alfred almost drops the seder plate. “People certainly do talk, don’t they?”

 

“You _were_ noticeably without him at my bar when you picked that fight.”

 

“Wouldn’t exactly bring a youngster to a bar fight, would you?” Alfred retorts.

 

Bullock shrugs. “Not too good with kids, myself. Bruce isn’t really a typical _kid_ , though, huh?”

 

“He’s a teenager, really,” Alfred corrects.

 

“You’re avoiding my questions,” Bullock says, his voice neutral but firm.

 

“Yes,” Alfred admits. “I was fired. Now I’m not. Can we move on?”

 

Bullock falls quiet, taking the offered seder plate from Alfred and drying it carefully and methodically.

 

“You okay?” he asks, after setting the plate carefully down on the counter and picking up his wine glass again.

 

Alfred dries his hands and starts packing up the leftovers. “Quite all right, thank you.”

 

Bullock chuckles. “ _Stiff upper lip_ and all that? Look,” he says, wandering over to the table and settling down at a stool across from Alfred, “I know how tough it is to be cut off from the people you care about. Especially if it’s you or them doing the cutting-off.”

 

“You and Captain Gordon still having a _spat_?” Alfred asks, in an attempt to get the spotlight off him.

 

Bullock hums and takes a gulp of wine, polishing off the glass. “Things with Jim...well, they’re complicated. We’re talking now, but I’m not sure where we stand.”

 

“I think I know the feeling,” Alfred mutters, mostly into the fridge.

 

“What’s that?” Bullock asks.

 

Alfred shakes his head as he turns back. “Nothing at all.” He’s finished putting all the leftovers away, and there’s nothing left to do but join Bullock at the table and fill up his own neglected wine glass. “To mending bridges,” he says, and clinks his glass against Bullock’s.

 

“To building new ones,” Bullock answers, and takes a sip in return. “Hey, you’ve got, like, a couch or something, right? These stools hurt my ass. And, anyway, it’s Passover, I gotta _recline_.”

 

Alfred smothers a chuckle at the blunt phrasing. “Yes, of course, we can retire to the sitting room.”

 

Bullock grabs the almost empty bottle of wine and lets Alfred lead him through the dark hallways. Alfred flicks the switch that turns on the softer set of lights when they get into the room and makes his way over to light a fire in the fireplace. He hears Bullock behind him settling down on the couch and putting the bottle of wine down onto the coffee table with a ‘clunk.’

 

With that done, Alfred makes his way over to the armchair with his own glass, but Bullock shakes his head and pats the couch next to him. “I showered for this, I’m _completely_ safe to sit next to,” he says, that teasing note in his voice.

 

“Alright then,” Alfred concedes, sitting down on the other side of the couch instead. It falls quiet between them for a bit, and Alfred lets his mind wander, staring off into the soothing light of the fire.

 

Harvey Bullock is a complicated man; Alfred has heard more than enough stories about him over the years, has had more than one interaction with him over the years as well. A crooked cop, a good man, an ally, a bartender—well, it’s not as though Alfred hasn’t had many stops and starts throughout his life.

 

It’s not as though Alfred hasn’t done things that could be considered morally gray, or even just plain bad. It’s nice, actually, to think that there are things he could say to the man sitting next to him that he wouldn’t likely be judged for. To think that Harvey Bullock knows what’s like to do what you have to do to accomplish what needs to be done.

 

And, of course, there’s the shadow of Jim Gordon between them. If Bullock isn’t sure where he stands with Gordon, Alfred is entirely perplexed. Gordon has been hot and cold ever since he came back to Gotham with Sofia Falcone in tow. Alfred has a bad feeling about all that, but it’s not his business; not yet, at least.

 

Gordon _was_ there for Bruce, though, recently, and Alfred is grateful for that. If only Gordon would stop being so damn _cagey_ , then Alfred maybe could get a grip on what’s going on.

 

And maybe he could stand to get a grip on the strained relationship between Bullock and Gordon. They were clearly close, Alfred could tell that ages ago, but he isn’t sure in what way. And he’s not sure what pulled them apart, either.

 

“I can hear you thinking,” Bullock says, glancing over at him.

 

Alfred looks back, sheepish as though Bullock could read his mind. “Just pondering a few things.”

 

“Yeah? Like which wine you’re gonna get for us next?”

 

Alfred chuckles. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough?”

 

“Nah,” Bullock says. “One more.”

 

It sounds like a good enough idea to Alfred. His head isn’t spinning quite too much yet, and he heaves himself off the couch to go dig another bottle out of the cellar.

 

When he returns to the sitting room with a fresh, open bottle of merlot, he finds Bullock at the window, staring out across the dark yard.

 

“It’s so quiet, here,” Bullock says, without turning around. “I’m used to sirens, voices, just _noise_.”

 

“It can be a bit disconcerting at first,” Alfred says, walking around to pour wine into the empty glass Bullock is holding loosely in his hand. He fills his own glass and places the bottle down on the table, turning the overhead light off as he makes his way back over to the window.

 

The only light left in the room is the fireplace, reflection glowing orange against the glass. It’s still too dark to see much of anything outside, but the sound of the still steadily falling rain mingles with the pop and crackle of the fire. Alfred feels calm—his belly full of food, his head full of wine, warmth radiating off the man at his side. It reminds him—

 

He puts his glass down on the table next to the window, and tries to recenter. That’s a bad path, filled with thoughts of Thomas. Filled with unrequited feelings, and a deep friendship that he won’t let himself miss the way he likely needs to. Master Bruce needs one of them to be strong about Thomas, and Alfred supposes that falls to him. It’s a burden he’ll happily shoulder, but on nights like this…

 

On nights like this, he remembers how long he stood at Thomas’ side and how Thomas’ death would hollow him out if he let it. He feels too much, all at once—lonely and sad and empty. He _has_ to be strong for Master Bruce; he can’t falter, can’t stumble. At least not where Bruce might see him.

 

It’s hard to breathe. Alfred turns away from the window to make his way back to the couch, and hopefully away from these feelings, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Bullock asks, his gruff voice softer than usual, and _kind_.

 

“Not particularly,” Alfred replies, fighting to keep his voice steady.

 

Once again, though, Alfred is reminded why Bullock was one of the best detectives at the GCPD.

 

“It’s okay to need to let go sometimes,” he says. “Drop the stiff upper lip act.”

 

“It’s not an act,” Alfred lies.

 

“Uh- _huh_ ,” Bullock says, clearly unconvinced. “My _ass_ it’s not. When’s the last time you let loose?”

 

“When I smashed the bollocks off of that murderer in your damn bar the other week,” Alfred snips, pulling out of Bullock’s light grip. He doesn’t walk too far, only takes a few steps before his attention is caught by the darkness outside of the next window, threatening to swallow him up.

 

“That’s not what I mean and you sure as hell know it,” Bullock says in a half-growl. “You’ve got the whole fucking world on your shoulders for that boy, and it’s admirable, don’t get me wrong. But you’ll be no good to him if you don’t let it all out sometimes.”

 

Alfred clears his throat and stands up straighter, locking his arms behind his back. “If I wanted your advice, Bullock, I’d ask for it.”

 

Bullock lets out a harsh snort. “Nobody damn well asks for my advice, but _guess what, buddy_ , you’re getting it anyway!”

 

“Keep your voice down,” Alfred hisses. “You’ll wake Master Bruce.”

 

Bullock lets out a noise of disgust and then _moves_ , getting right in Alfred’s face. His breath is sweet with fruit, sour with the alcohol underneath, as he hisses right back: “And if _you_ keep everything locked up inside, one day you’ll crack, and you’ll be no use to that boy.”

 

Alfred stands his ground for a beat, meeting Bullock’s gaze with a steady stare.

 

“You’ll be no use to yourself, either,” Bullock finishes, so quiet that Alfred almost doesn’t catch his words. He steps back from Alfred, shaking his head. Alfred doesn’t move away from the window as he hears Bullock settle heavily back down onto the couch.

 

Alfred lets the darkness anchor him and sinks into it; the glow of the fire, and the annoyance of Bullock, at his back.

 

“I was in love with Thomas Wayne since the day he saved me from myself,” Alfred says. His head spins at the words, at the weight of what he’s never spoken out loud. Or, maybe the spinning is just the wine. Alfred hears Bullock shift but he doesn’t turn away from the window to check, just keeps staring out through the rain-splattered window into nothingness. “Now that he’s gone…”

 

“You miss him.” It’s not a question.

 

Alfred still doesn’t move. “Not as much as Master Bruce does.”

 

Bullock snorts and Alfred hears the couch creak as he gets off it, hears footsteps approach, feels a warm hand on his back. “It’s not a competition, you _moron_. You’re allowed to miss him, too.”

 

“I can’t,” Alfred says, his voice weak and wavering. “I’ve got to—”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bullock cuts him off. “You’ve got to be the strong one, you’ve got to hold it together, blah, blah, blah. You’re a _human_ , just the same as Bruce is. You’re allowed to have your own feelings.”

 

Alfred feels all the fight leave his body, all at once, knocking the wind out of him. Bullock half-drags him back over to the couch and lets him get it all out. Alfred is sure most of what he splutters out is pure nonsense, but Bullock doesn’t seem to mind. He just holds Alfred close, rubbing his back in soothing, comforting circles.

 

When Alfred finally cries himself all out, Bullock takes his face gently in his hands, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“You did good,” he says.

 

Alfred sniffs. “Feel like hell warmed over,” he mutters, his voice still thick from the tears. Bullock’s thumb brushes his cheek.

 

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Bullock pulls back a bit, just enough to redirect Alfred’s head to rest on his shoulder.

 

The wine and the torrent of emotions he’d just poured out start to drag Alfred under, and he pulls himself back to an awake enough state to start to pry himself off the couch and out of the warm embrace of Harvey Bullock.

 

“I should retire to bed,” he says, only stumbling slightly as he gets to his feet. “And show you to a guest bedroom.”

 

“I’m fine right here,” Bullock says, patting the couch. “You alright to get to bed?”

 

Alfred nods. “Please,” he says, “let me show you to a room.”

 

Bullock considers, and then relents. “Alright, show me what you got.” Alfred leads him to the closest guest bedroom, dead on his feet, but before he can leave Bullock behind, the other man grabs his arm. “Alfred,” he says, “if you need me, you know where to find me.”

 

“Thank you,” Alfred says, and makes his escape. Tonight has been too much, and he’ll be paying for it later. He’s weary down to his bones and he’s sure he’s going to regret saying what he did in the morning.

 

But, even with all that, he feels _lighter_. Even with his head spinning and starting to pound, even with leaning heavily on the sink as he brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed, he feels like he can breathe a bit again.

 

And as he falls into bed and sinks into sleep, he knows that he doesn’t regret inviting Bullock to the seder tonight; no matter how he feels in the morning, he made the right choice, if only for Bullock making Master Bruce laugh.

 

And, if Bullock took some of the heavy weight off Alfred’s shoulders, that’s just a bonus, really.

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred wakes early, as he always does. His head aches, but he drags himself out of bed anyway. Master Bruce will be up soon, and he needs to shower and get breakfast ready. And take an Aspirin.

 

He turns the shower on a bit cold in the hopes that it wakes him up and clears his head. He’s not sure it helps quite enough as he would have liked, but at least it soothes his headache a touch.

 

The house is still silent when he dresses and heads downstairs. Sunlight streams in through the windows, dusty and warm and, even though it hurts his eyes a bit, it’s soothing. Nothing at all like the bleak rainy darkness of the night before, where he shared too much with a man he barely knows.

 

Alfred sighs and sets the coffeemaker going while he pulls ingredients out of the fridge. No bacon this morning; he doesn’t want to subject Bullock to the smell of something that he doesn’t enjoy. Omelettes, maybe? Or oatmeal...Alfred can give the two gentlemen a choice when they make their respective ways downstairs.

 

The coffee machine stops bubbling and Alfred pours himself a cup, choking it with milk and sugar, and then sets to chopping vegetables for any potential omelettes.

 

Master Bruce comes downstairs first, bright-eyed and chirpy. Alfred pours him a large glass of orange juice, and cracks eggs for an omelette.

 

“Did Harvey stay the night?” Bruce asks. “I saw his car still outside.”

 

Alfred nods. “He’s in the east wing guest bedroom,” he confirms. “Too much wine to get home safe.”

 

“Were you up late, talking? I thought I heard noises at some point.”

 

“A bit, yes,” Alfred confirms, folding vegetables into the egg in the pan. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”

 

Bruce shakes his head and digs into the omelette that Alfred sets in front of him. “I just got up to get a drink of water in the middle of the night and thought I heard something.”

 

Alfred is _very_ glad that his not-quite-fight with Bullock didn’t wake Bruce, and especially that Bruce didn’t hear anything.

 

“I’m glad you invited him,” Bruce says, through a mouthful of egg.

 

“Chew your food, Master Bruce,” Alfred admonishes gently.

 

Bruce swallows and continues, “It was nice. Having someone to lead the seder. To, you know, make us laugh.”

 

“Are you saying that I was right, Master Bruce? If you recall, you didn’t want to have a seder in the first place,” Alfred teases.

 

“Yeah, alright,” Bruce replies, rolling his eyes fondly. “You were right, Alfred, it _was_ a good idea.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Alfred says, light and joking. “Much obliged.”

 

Alfred makes himself a bowl of oatmeal, filled with fruit and a touch of honey, and joins Bruce at the table. They eat and joke around and just enjoy the warm, quiet morning.

 

Bullock stumbles downstairs around an hour later, grumbling and even more rumpled than usual. He doesn’t seem to be in a bad mood, just a bit bleary and hungover. Alfred pours him a coffee, placing creamer and sugar in Bullock’s general vicinity, and gets to making a second omelette, with Bullock’s choice of vegetables.

 

After chugging three mugs of half-sugar-half-coffee and inhaling the omelette, Bullock finally manages to string together a coherent sentence, one which mostly involves the words, ‘thank’ and ‘you.’

 

It’s easy, just the three of them, in the warm mid-morning light. Even still when Alfred catches Bullock watching him carefully, and knows the other man is thinking of their conversation from the previous evening.

 

Even when Alfred knows that Bullock knows too much, more than Alfred ever meant to share with anyone but the cold uncaring depths of night.

 

Bullock is far from cold and uncaring; in fact, past his crude, brash exterior, he’s warm and kind and sweet, like the coffee in Alfred’s mug.

 

Alfred is suddenly acutely aware that the room has fallen silent, he and Bullock just looking at each other while Master Bruce smiles down into his cup of juice.

 

He clears his throat and pushes away from the table. “Can I get anyone anything else? More juice, Master B? Coffee, Bullock?”

 

“I should actually get going,” Bullock says, getting up as well. “I gotta start figuring out what to do about the bar since it’s still a crime scene.”

 

“Well, then, you don’t have to work tonight, do you?” Bruce pipes up.

 

Bullock looks at him, curious. “Doubt it.”

 

Bruce smiles. “Would you like to join us for the second seder, tonight?”

 

Bullock glances up at Alfred, who gives him a slight nod. “If the both of you don’t mind, that’d be real nice, thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome here anytime, Harvey,” Bruce says, sincere and kind as always. At least he’s back to the person Alfred knows he can be.

 

Alfred leads Bullock out to the front door, handing him his coat and hat. Bullock puts the hat on and slings the coat over his arm.

 

“How’re you feeling this morning?” he asks.

 

Alfred wants to lie, but it’s harder now that he’s in the pattern of telling Bullock the truth. Now that he’s spilled some of his tightly locked up secrets to the man. “Not sure,” Alfred admits. “Still a bit raw, I suppose.”

 

Bullock nods. “That’ll happen. I’m bringing some good whiskey by tonight, instead of wine, so get ready for more emotional late-night talks.”

 

“I’m not sure I can handle two nights in a row of that,” Alfred says, only half-joking.

 

“Too bad!” Bullock says, clapping him on the arm. “Bruce already invited me, you’re stuck with me!”

 

“I wouldn’t say stuck,” Alfred protests.

 

Bullock laughs. “You say that _now_!” He steps out of the front door that Alfred holds open for him. “See you tonight, Alfred.”

 

“Have a good day, Bullock. See you this evening.”

 

“You know,” Bullock calls over his shoulder on the way to his car, “you really gotta just call me ‘Harvey,’ like I told you and Bruce last night.”

 

“We’ll see about that,” Alfred calls after him, waving in return as Bullock—alright, as _Harvey_ gets into his car and drives off.

 

Alfred walks back into the kitchen, smiling a bit to himself. Master Bruce is still sitting at the kitchen table, and he grins wide at Alfred.

 

“So…” he says, his voice light and teasing.

 

“Yes, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, not giving into the prodding as he starts to clean up from breakfast-turned-brunch. “Do you have something you would like to say to me?”

 

“No, nothing,” Bruce says, looking pointedly down at his empty glass. “Just that you and Harvey seem to have really hit it off last night.”

 

Turning his back to Bruce, Alfred smiles again. “I suppose,” he says, not giving anything away. Bruce is right, though, Alfred is already looking forward to the second seder tonight, to laugh and joke around with Harvey.

 

And, later, after Master Bruce goes to sleep, to talk. To maybe learn more about Harvey, tonight, instead of just continuing to spill his own guts out to the poor man. To maybe, also, get a bit more of the physical comfort that Harvey had offered last night. Alfred hadn’t realized how starved he was for touch until Harvey had held him close and his whole body hummed with the contact.

 

Ah, well, nothing to do but wait out the day.

 

* * *

 

 

The sky is clear this time when Harvey pulls up to Wayne Manor. It’s still brisk, though. Harvey still hands over his coat and hat to Alfred to hang up when he steps inside the front door, only a few hours after he’d left. His long hair is shower-damp tonight, instead of rain-damp, and he smells faintly of soap.

 

The second night is much the same as the first, but even more comfortable and loose between the three of them. Bruce leads them in a rousing round of Dayenu, and Harvey keeps pretending as though he’s going to let the song end, and then jumps back in, making Bruce laugh every time.

 

Making Alfred laugh every time.

 

It does finally come to an end, both Dayenu and the seder, but the song still echoes in Alfred’s head. ‘It would have been enough,’ is what it means. ‘I didn’t need this, too, but I’m grateful for it,’ really. ‘The one thing I’ve already been given would have been enough for me, and any more that I receive is a gift far beyond what was already _enough_.’

 

It spins around in Alfred’s mind as he clears the table after dinner, Bruce and Harvey laughing behind him after he told them to stay seated, that he’d clear the table himself this time.

 

It would have been enough, Alfred thinks, with just him and Bruce. Really, it would have been. But, Harvey adds a layer that they weren’t _missing_ per se, but a layer that is a blessing, really, to have.

 

A blessing that continues after Bruce goes up to sleep, later tonight than he had the previous evening, with the three of them having so much fun and filling the quiet house with laughter and light. It continues when Alfred and Harvey retire once again to the sitting room, with Harvey’s bottle of good Irish whiskey shared between them.

 

Harvey’s arm wraps around his shoulders as they talk and drink and laugh, and Alfred thinks, “Dayenu.”

**Author's Note:**

> Harvey Bullock said "l'chaim" once so he's an Irish Jew sorry I don't make the rules.
> 
> Thank you to Ruth for the beta! 
> 
> And thanks, especially, to Ken for sending me a gifset of Harvey saving Alfred at the bar from a recent ep and asking, "Are they dating?" THEY ARE NOW!!


End file.
